


With Enough to Believe In

by Xparrot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Conversations, Drama, Episode: s12e08 LOTUS, Gen, Missing Scene, Supportive Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/Xparrot
Summary: After they get the device from Ketch, Team Free Will has to decide who's facing Lucifer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If the show (and certain show writers) will not give us dramatic conversations with the brothers, I will have to keep writing my own.

Sam spent the whole drive to the motel not speaking, just sitting in the passenger seat staring blankly out the windshield, with the little bag containing the Men of Letters' magic egg in his lap. Every couple minutes he'd put his hand over it, gingerly, like you'd pet a growling dog, and yeah, that boded well.

Dean didn't say anything, though. Wasn't sure what he wanted to say, and he'd learned, eventually, that sometimes it was better to wait, give himself time to figure out what he was feeling. Give Sam the same. 

Instead he looked at Cas sitting in the backseat, met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "So, Cas, how long you been moonlighting as a lie detector?"

"Since never," the angel said. "Not with humans. It's a common misapprehension about the angelic host, that because we can hear prayers, we can easily distinguish other thoughts as well. But I thought it was better not to let him know that."

Dean didn't trust this Ketch guy himself any further than he could throw his overpriced British import, the grenade launcher notwithstanding. Something about the man made his skin crawl, not in a supernaturally creepy way but an all too human one. He wasn't sure if it bothered or warmed his heart, that Cas had picked up a hunter's suspicious nature. "So you lied about lying—nice."

"He was the one who made the initial assumption." Cas sounded slightly more annoyed. Over the years Dean had gotten pretty good at distinguishing growing irritation over the angel's general exasperation.

Dean shook his head, said, "I dunno, maybe we should start telling everyone you can see the truth. Might encourage our interview subjects to be more upfront."

"How am I supposed to see spoken words?" Cas demanded.

"Of course then we'd have to tell them you're an angel...maybe we could say you're psychic?"

"For someone interested in the truth, you're willing to commit an incongruous number of falsehoods to get it."

"Hey, I told you a long time ago, when humans want something, they lie..."

Cas huffed, Dean smirked, and Sam...didn't join the conversation, but when Dean glanced over, he'd folded his arms, letting the bag rest on his legs without any more fussing. So Dean counted that as a win.

 

* * *

 

At the motel, Dean found that Crowley had left a voicemail saying he was popping Rowena around to pick up spell supplies. He wasn't even complaining about having to take his mom on an errand run, which was either character growth or a sign of how dire things were getting. Probably both.

Cas circled the rooms, laying down wards and seals to hopefully keep Lucifer from cutting and running. Without much else to do to get ready, Dean said, "Okay, Sam, give me the magic egg."

"The—what?" Sam, sitting in the room's sole armchair, started out of the brown study he'd dropped back into, pulling his chin up out of his hand. "The pulse generator?" He blinked down at the bag, still in his lap. "Why?"

"Figure I should practice with it. Get a feel for it, get the incantation down."

Sam frowned. "Why? You're not going to be using it."

Dean frowned back. "I'm not?"

"No, Dean," Sam said, in the overly patient tone he generally reserved for lessons in obscure history and grammar corrections. "I am."

"You? Says who?"

"Me," Sam said, "because I'm going to do it." He took a breath, unfolded himself from the chair to stand, the device in its bag tucked under his arm. "I'm getting Lucifer out, so Rowena can shove him back where he belongs."

"Or," Dean said, "I could do it. And then you don't have to look that asshole in the glowing red eyes."

"But I want to," Sam said. "I want to see him go down."

"You can watch," Dean said. "Front-row seat, right here," and he sketchily gestured a box by the door.

"Yes," Cas cut in from where he was finishing with the window. "You can both watch from there, while I employ the generator."

Dean shook his head, saw Sam do the same. "No way, Cas. This thing's designed to evict angels, remember?"

"We don't know exactly how it works, how directional it is," Sam added. "You'll need to stay back, or you could get pushed out of your vessel."

"And if you're not safely stashed away when Rowena cracks the Cage, you could get pulled in, too," Dean concluded. "Then we'd have to go to Hell again to get you out, and that never goes well..."

Cas narrowed his eyes at both of them, then shook his head and headed to the adjacent room, letting the door bang shut behind him.

Dean glanced at his brother, to see if their momentary alliance had made him any more reasonable—but Sam was looking down at the bag again, fingers splayed over the solid curve of the egg under the cloth. A light grip, it almost looked, by the steadiness of his arm; but the tendons were standing out on the back of his hand.

"Come on, Sam, seriously," Dean said. "This generator is brand-new magic, not a spell or a curse, like nothing we've fooled around with before. And we got it from the Men of Letters? The same stand-up guys who kidnapped you and tortured both of us? What are the odds that it's totally on the level, no chance of anything going wrong?"

"Not great," Sam said. "So if things do go pear-shaped—"

"Wait—so you _don't_ trust them? Then why'd you call them in?"

"I didn't..." Sam gritted his teeth. "Whatever they have against us, the Men of Letters are still human, so when it's Lucifer..."

"The enemy of my enemy usually turns right around and bites us in the ass," Dean grumbled.

"Which is why we've brought both Crowley and Rowena in on this?"

"Exactly—and don't you want to be the one watching Rowena, make sure she's not pulling another fast one?"

"You'll be on that," Sam said. "While I'm activating the generator."

"Sam—"

"How many times are we going to go over this? You don't get the monopoly on taking risks, Dean."

Dean exhaled. "Fine, yeah, we're partners, I get it. So, what, you want to flip for it?"

Sam's fingers tightened over the bagged egg, fabric crumpling under his white knuckles. "I want you to have my back, while I do what I have to."

"Or you could stop pretending that this is your destiny or whatever crap, and give me a chance to play hero."

Sam took a step toward him—a warning sign; Sam rarely used his height to intimidate, and even less on Dean, since it wasn't like it worked on him anyway. But it still wasn't enough for Dean to brace for it, to have Sam say, "What's the matter, Dean? You don't trust me to do this?"

If he'd sounded pissed, that would be one thing. But calm like that meant real hurt, and Dean winced, even knowing he was getting played. "No, that's not—man, that's not fair. You know that I know that you can take on the Devil—geeze, Sam."

Sam's set jaw twitched, a flash of guilt in his eyes—but anger, too, the kind he always kept a lid on. Even more with Lucifer out and about, so if he was this close to actually losing it, something was really wrong.

As if Dean didn't already know that. "That's kind of the point," Dean said. "You put Lucifer back in the box once—that's enough, isn't it? You shouldn't have to do it again. It wasn't even..." He realized where that sentence was going, shut his mouth in a hurry.

Not fast enough. Sam's mouth quirked. "Wasn't even my fault this time," he finished.

Understanding instead of angry, and that made it worse. Dean didn't see any way out of this but forward. "Well, it wasn't—and yeah, it sucks that he's out again, and we've got to deal with him because no one else is going to. But it doesn't have to be you, not this time. You've dealt with that dick more than anyone ever should, in Hell and in your head and out here—you should be able to sit one out, for one damn time let somebody else take the heat. Cold, whatever."

Sam's lips twisted again. Curled up, in a smile that was too accepting, too grateful. "Thanks, Dean," he said. "But I can't. Even if I wanted to—this is still on me."

"No, it's not—why the hell would it be?"

"Because it's Lucifer," Sam said. "Because it's me—because of what's between us."

"Bullshit," Dean said, "there's nothing between you, except a lot of pain and torture. You being his chosen vessel, that's garbage. You know as well as anybody, there's no big plan, there never was, not one worth following—"

"No," Sam said, "there's not. And that's what I'm talking about."

"That's—what?"

"I understand him," Sam said. Softly and calmly and the bottom was falling out of his eyes. "Lucifer. Back in LA, what he said about God ditching us, how there's no point—I get it. It feels—I feel....when you told me Chuck was still alive, that he had survived, but just left—and it was his decision, and he, I know he thinks he did the right thing. I know. But when it comes down to it, he's just an asshole. Just some stupid hack writer who never knew where his story was going, never cared enough to think it through, so he just abandoned it."

"That's what you think now?" Dean said. "How you really feel about it?"

Sam met his eyes, not looking away. Chin raised, awaiting judgment.

As if Dean had any to pass. "So how the hell else are you supposed to feel? I never gave a crap, but you—you believed in God, all this time, and then he shows up only to skip out on you and everybody else. Who wouldn't be pissed? You think that makes you like frigging Satan? You've got it backwards. What Lucifer said up on that stage, that's the only thing about that crazy son of a bitch that makes sense. And maybe that little bit, he's like you. That doesn't mean you're a monster—it just means Lucifer is a little bit human."

Sam blinked, then turned his head in a single negating shake. "That's not—"

"And if you want to talk connections to the Devil, what about me?" Dean said. "Okay, you hosted him for a hot minute seven years ago. Me and Lucifer, we've got way more in common now," and he raised his arm, fist clenched, elbow turned up.

He was wearing two layers of long sleeves, and it wasn't like there was anything to see under them now anyway; but Sam still twisted his head from the sight, a brief involuntary flinch.

"We're both ex-Mark-junkies," Dean said. "What'd Chuck call it—tainted."

"I bore it, too," Sam muttered, then winced again at Dean's silent raised-eyebrow _seriously?_ "Okay, but that's...Lucifer had the Mark for eons."

"Yeah, and he's an immortal archangel—how long is an eon, in angel years? It could've been less time than I had it, comparatively speaking."

"But it was long enough to change him," Sam said.

"It was long enough to change me," Dean returned. Fast, before he could take it back.

He steeled himself, as Sam opened his mouth, shut it again. Honesty warring with loyalty; Sam always wanted to believe the best of him. But honesty won. Sam exhaled. Glanced down and tightened his grip on the magic device in the bag, and said, "Is that really it? Why you need to do this—to prove to yourself you're not like Lucifer?"

It was a way out; Dean could see it in Sam's tightened jaw. He'd give this up, for Dean's catharsis. To try to make it better, because it wasn't enough that he'd damn near ended the world to get that thing off Dean's arm. 

"No," Dean said, sighing. "It's not about that. It's..."

The words were there on the tip of his tongue. That garden. White suit and a red rose and the distant echo of gunfire. A smile that wasn't Sam's and never could be. 

But they were two years past that untraveled road, and the Sam standing before him now was older and rougher and not smiling. And still his brother, through and through.

"I just want a shot at him," Dean said. "Payback, for all the times he's screwed with us."

Sam's lips twitched. "Yeah, and he has it coming. But I can give it to him, Dean."

"I know you can."

"I know," Sam said. "And that—that matters. But _I_ need to know I can. That I'm still strong enough."

That rocked Dean a step back on his heels, frowning. "Why the hell wouldn't you be—?"

"I didn't talk to you about calling in the Men of Letters," Sam said, all in a rush.

"No...no, you didn't," Dean agreed, cautiously, groping for understanding.

"That's why I hung up on them—partly why. I was standing in the back of the library, the phone in my hand, and I thought, no, that's not how we do it anymore—we don't go behind each other's backs, not when it's something this important."

"Definitely try not to," Dean agreed again. Then, when Sam didn't continue, asked, "So why didn't you suggest bringing them in? Lucifer is an anything-goes kind of situation, and it wasn't like we had a lot of other options on the table. I didn't say anything because I figured we'd only be calling in more trouble, but..."

"So you would've disagreed? Said no way?"

"Not sure—you might've talked me into it? Does seem like it would've saved us some time," and Dean nodded at the egg Sam was clutching. "You didn't speak up because you thought I'd just shoot it down?"

"No." Sam shook his head. "Not that." He looked down at the bag in his hand. "I meant to say something. I went to. Two or three times. But every time I went to say it...I couldn't. Every time I tried, I just..." He trailed off. Still looking down, but his gaze was distant.

"Hey," Dean said. Took his brother's arm and found it rigid. "Hey, man." He gave a gentle shake and Sam's tense figure relaxed, eyes snapping back into focus. 

Sam swallowed, tried for a smile that might've had a passing chance of convincing a blind man. "It's stupid," he said. "What they did to me—Toni Bevell, that other woman..."

"Yeah?" Dean said, carefully casual. Sam hadn't talked about this, not more than he had to. Explaining the burned foot that Cas hadn't been able to heal in one go, the most obvious bloodshed. Dean knew there was more—there always was more—but sometimes forgetting was the best way to deal. Especially when it was all over with and wouldn't happen again, and the ones who'd done it were either dead or an ocean away, way out of reach. And if Sam needed to talk, what else were ten-hour car-rides for? But he hadn't, not yet.

So Dean tried for casual, but it wasn't like his brother hadn't heard him faking cool on a thousand hunts. Sam shook his head, said, "It's okay, Dean. It wasn't...they were just humans. They couldn't—it wasn't anything like being in the Cage."

"Right," Dean said slowly. "You realize there's a pretty damn big gap there. Between what Lucifer did in the Cage, and what's actually okay."

"I survived the Cage," Sam said, jaw set.

"And I survived a stint in Hell, too," Dean said, "but it wasn't up close and personal with Lucifer—so are you going to tell me that was nothing? That I should've just shrugged it off?"

Sam blanched, pale enough to look sick. "No, obviously—"

"Yeah, obviously," Dean said. "So. It was easier to pick up the phone and call those British dicks yourself, than to suggest it out loud and have me say yes?"

"It was, until I did it. When I heard Mick's voice..." Sam looked away, throat working with anger, or fear, or shame.

And maybe Dean had never believed in God; but he knew what it was like to have your faith knocked out from under you. How much it hurt, how it shook everything down to the foundations, leaving you without enough to believe in anything, not even yourself. He knew how long it could take to build it up again, the effort it was to walk when you doubted the very ground under every step you took.

But Sam kept moving forward anyway, stubborn son of a bitch that he was. "Dude, don't overthink it," Dean said. "Calling them, hanging up—it all worked out in the end, right? At least if that egg works for you as advertised."

Sam straightened up. "So it'll be me?"

"Hey, I already killed Hitler. It's your turn at bat. But," and Dean raised a finger, "you're gonna owe me for sticking me with babysitting duty on Crowley and Rowena, again. First against Amara, now this—what do I look like, a demonic nursemaid?"

"Well, you've always been good with kids." Sam tilted his head. "I've assumed it's because you think at their level..."

"Hah hah, you're hilarious," Dean said. "Pretty sure most three-year-olds are more mature than either of those three-hundred-year-olds anyway." He glanced at the shut door, listening to the silence from the other room. The silence listened back intently. "You think Cas is—"

"Waiting for the all-clear?" Sam turned to the door but didn't bother raising his voice to say, "Hey, Cas, it's all figured—"

The door opened and the angel re-entered the room. 

"—out," Sam finished.

"It's about time," Cas said. "Crowley and Rowena are on their way back, and I don't think they'd appreciate being compared to human toddlers. However accurate the metaphor. I've also finished with the wards. For what good they'll do."

"And that's if we can get Lucifer here," Dean said. "To find out if this egg doohickey even works."

Cas looked to the bag in Sam's hands. "So Sam will be using the generator to drive out Lucifer?"

"Yes," Sam said, spine stiff, braced for an argument that didn't come; Cas just nodded.

"So what do you think the odds are?" Dean asked. "That everything'll go according to plan?"

Cas frowned. "You'd actually consider that a possibility?"

"You know what I like about you, Cas? Your optimism."

"But we don't need everything to," Cas said. "Just enough to give us a chance. Which we have."

"We do?" Sam asked.

"Yes," Cas said, and for a moment he was channeling his old self, the uncompromising, absolute angel. "We have you."

Sam looked momentarily startled, then smiled—tentative, but meaning it. "Thanks, Cas."

Cas nodded back, serious. "You're both extremely experienced with disasters. So when things go wrong this time, you'll be ready."

"Yeah...thanks a lot, Cas," Dean said.

Sam was still smiling. "He's not wrong."

"No," Dean conceded. Met his brother's eyes and added, "About any of it. We're going to do this, Sammy—you're going to do this."

"Yeah," Sam said, looking at Dean, not past him. His voice was firm but the doubt showed in his eyes, not a hundred percent certain. Maybe he never would be. But that was okay; Dean could make up the difference. "I will."


End file.
